


Flowers Growing From The Soil Of A Lonely Heart

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Body Horror, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Daisy/Basira, Mutual Pining, Now Contains Art!!!!, Spoilers Through Episode 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: In which both Martin and Jon experience a strange, unusual, and often deadly disease of the heart.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 57
Kudos: 600





	Flowers Growing From The Soil Of A Lonely Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sockablock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockablock/gifts).

> For @sockablock for being the worst (best) enabler EVER. This is all their fault. It is the best blame.
> 
> Updated 11/16: Now featuring art from the AMAZING [@cary-atherton-art!](https://cary-atherton-art.tumblr.com) Go check out the rest of their work!

Martin doesn’t know what it says about him that he had thought Hanahaki Disease had sounded, well, had sounded _romantic _when he had first read about it in one of the Institutes many books on strange and unnatural diseases. A disease brought on by one sided love, causing the victim to cough up flower petals until their love was returned, or they had surgery to remove the roots growing inside of them, killing their feelings for the other person in the process. There had been drawings of bodies that had become gardens after the victims had finally succumbed, and Martin had remembered thinking it was _poetic_ that even after death, love could still flourish in such a way.

He had been younger then. He had been younger, had still been coming home to a mother who was dying slowly and painfully by inches of an illness that was not pretty, not poetic. That had been before Jon. Before that ache had started deep in his lungs. Later he’d try to pinpoint when it had all started, but so much had been going on. Had it been the first night after he had returned to the Institute, and Jon had let him stay in the archives because Martin hadn’t felt safe at his flat? Had it been after the worms had attacked, during his tearful apology to Jon that he had left him behind when they’d been running for their lives? Or had it been during a quiet moment? A day when Martin had brought Jon tea and he had seen the barest hint of a smile?

Martin doesn’t know. All he knows is that it _hurts_ when the soft, purple rose petals stick in his throat, when the leaves rustle in his lungs. But what can he do? He can’t tell Jon, how can he? If Jon says he doesn’t love him, Martin will probably choke to death in front of him, and he can’t have Jon living with that guilt. Removing the roots seems wrong as well, the thought of giving up his feelings just so he can live— it doesn’t seem like a fair trade. So he endures, going about his day as best as he can, getting used to the pain and the shortness of breath.

——————

Jon isn’t sure when the ache in his chest starts, but he remembers the day the first flowers had fallen from his lips. He had been staying with Georgie, and he had just made himself a cup of tea, had just taken a sip when the coughing started, tiny purple flowers scattering themselves across the countertop. Later he’d realize that he’d been thinking about Martin just before it happened, how the tea Martin had always made for him had tasted better than any cup Jon made for himself. At the time though, Jon hadn’t known what was happening or why, just that it was another weird and terrifying thing that was happening to him amongst all the other weird and terrifying things.

He does his best to conceal his condition from Georgie, who’s already upset at him because of all the statements showing up at the house, but one night Jon awakes from a dream he can’t remember with his lungs on fire, coughing so hard that can’t catch his breath. He’s dimly aware of The Admiral running out of his room, and the next minute the bedroom light turns on and he hears Georgie’s horrified gasp from the doorway. Then her hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles as the coughing subsides. When he manages to open his eyes, blinking away tears, he sees the tiny purple flowers covering his pillow, the petals spotted with flecks of blood.

“Whoever it is Jon, you need to tell them you love them.”

Jon looks up at Georgie as he takes the tea she’s offering him. He’s curled up on the couch, The Admiral sprawled in his lap, purring. “I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He takes a sip of tea, tastes lavender and honey, feels the itch in the back of his throat. It’s all he can do not to cough.

“You’ve never heard of Hanahaki Disease?”

Jon looks at Georgie for a long moment before he starts laughing softly in disbelief. “That’s— that’s not a real thing. It’s a— a fairy tale, a tragic romance trope, a— I’m not in _love_—“ and then he’s coughing again, purple flowers spilling into the hand he claps over his mouth.

“I did a two part episode on the Corpse Gardens of Cornwall and the flowering ghosts of London. I know what I’m talking about. Plus, you know, you’re coughing up actual flowers all over the place.” She hands Jon a box of tissues. “People _die_ from it, Jon. You either need to confess your feelings or get the surgery to have them removed, but you can’t live like this forever.”

Jon spits into the tissue and tries not to stare at the mess of purple and red. “It’s complicated.” Complicated as in someone murdered Jurgen Leitner. Complicated as in he’s not even sure if he can ever go back to the Institute. Complicated as in he might be wanted for murder.

Georgie rubs his shoulder gently before getting up. “Listen, I can recommend a good surgeon if you go that route. Just— whatever you do, you should do it soon. It only gets worse.”

Jon looks up, startled. “Georgie? Did you—?”

“It was after you, Jon, and I don’t want to talk about it. Drink your tea and get some sleep, all right?”

Sleep doesn’t find Jon easily though, not even with The Admiral laying on his chest, purring soothingly. If he— if he _was_ in love with Martin, was there any hope at all Martin might love him back? Sure, Martin was friendly enough to him, was sometimes overly concerned with his well being, but that doesn’t mean—

Jon feels the tickle in the back of his throat and swallows hard against it. What if he manages to see Martin and confesses only to find out that Martin didn’t feel the same?

Jon starts coughing again. The Admiral digs his claws into Jon’s pajama top and purrs even harder.

———————

They almost confess to each other once, though neither of them knows it. It was after Jon had been kidnapped and had returned to the Institute (the first of many times), Martin catching Jon up a bit on what happened while he had bern gone, apologizing for not knowing that Jon had been _kidnapped, _Jon saying that he’d be going away again, following some leads.

Jon sees the crestfallen look on Martin’s face and sighs. “Listen, I’m—I’m sorry. I know— we haven’t talked much since, well, since Sasha and everything.”

Martin forces out a laugh, his breath catching a bit in his throat. It’s getting a little harder to breathe every day. “Well, I mean, it’s not too late you know. Unless the world ends.”

There is silence between them, no sound except for their strained breathing. Jon’s heart pounds in his ears. _Just tell him how you feel. Tell him and then you’ll know how he feels and this can all be over one way or another._

_Just tell him_, Martin thinks. _Just tell him how you feel. Three words._ He had been awake all night coughing. He’s tired. He’s so tired.

They both open their mouths to speak, both start coughing at the same time. Jon turns away to cough into his elbow and when he turns back, Martin is gone. Jon stares at his open office door before picking tiny flowers out of the sleeve of his sweater.

Martin staggers down the hallway, leaving behind a trail of purple petals for the janitor to clean up later.

—————

Martin watches as the police handcuff Elias. He should be pleased that his plan worked, that they’ve gotten Elias out of the way, but all Martin can think about is Jon laying so very very still on the hospital bed behind him. The thought leads to a brief coughing fit, and when he looks back at Elias, the man is smirking that god awful insufferable knowing smirk he has.

“Nasty cough you’ve got there, Martin. Should probably have that looked at,” Elias says before he’s escorted out.

Martin glares after him, then sighs and sinks down into a chair, his breath rasping, his throat raw. His gaze moves to the monitors above Jon’s bed. No heartbeat, no breath, just his brain firing away. Still alive. Somehow still alive.

Martin takes one of Jon’s hands in his. It’s cold.

“Jon. I— I don’t know if you can hear me or not. I hope you can. You— you have to wake up. Tim and Daisy are gone and— and I don’t want you to be gone too. So you have to wake up. You have to wake up because I—I—“ _I love you_, is what he was going to say, but when he takes as deep a breath as he can manage so that he can say the words, something _rattles_ in his chest. It’s a sound like rose canes rubbing together and it’s accompanied by a pain as sharp as thorns. When Martin starts coughing he feels something warm hit the palm of his hand, sees the too bright splash of blood that accompanies the cascade of rose petals.

“Elias is right,” says a voice from behind Martin. “You should really have that looked at.”

Martin gasps and staggers out of the chair, blood and rose petals dripping from his hand and onto the floor. Peter Lukas is standing only a few feet away, smiling at him.

“Mister Lukas, w-what are you doing here?!”

“Oh please, call me Peter.”

“No—no thank you,” Martin gasps, feeling the sharp edged tips of leaves tickling his lungs as he does.

“Suit yourself,” Peter says with a shrug. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your little victory! You did very well. I think you might have even _surprised _Elias, and that’s no small thing.” He smiles. “Well, maybe not _completely _surprised him. Elias had a little bit of a contingency plan set up in case something happened to him. After all, someone has to keep the Institute running.”

“You.”

“Precisely. Oh, don’t look so frightened, Martin, I’m not planning on doing anything _drastic._ Just a little time off for you, and Basira and Melanie of course. After all you’ve been through, losing Tim and Daisy and all. And of course, Jon.”

Martin _hates _hearing Jon’s name in Peter’s mouth. “He’s _not_ gone yet,” Martin hisses, then he’s coughing again, nearly bent double by the force of it.

“Don’t go getting too worked up, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Peter’s hand is on Martin’s arm, guiding him back to the chair. “Here, sit down.”

Martin wants to pull away from Peter, but it’s all he can do to slump into the chair as the coughing begins to subside.

“Is it the Archivist you have feelings for?”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just concentrates on breathing as he wipes the blood off of his lips.

“Hanahaki disease is a funny thing,” Peter says. “No ones really sure which one of the Entities it might have come from. You’d think everyone would just agree it’s the Corruption’s doing, but the fact remains that the disease only takes root in the soil of a lonely heart. That’s rather— _poetic_, don’t you think?”

“Could you _please_ leave me alone?” Martin manages to wheeze, still bent over, staring down at his blood spotting the tile.

“Oh I’d be _happy_ to,” Peter says, sounding genuinely pleased. “For now at least. And if you ever want any help with your little— _problem_, please don’t hesitate to come to me. I wouldn’t want to lose my new assistant so quickly, after all.”

Peter makes no sound when he disappears, but somehow Martin feels the absence of him anyway. He raises his head and looks at Jon again.

“Jon.” It’s only a whisper, but oh, how it hurts. He feels the tears begin to fall, leaving cold trails down his cheeks. “Jon, _please_. You have to wake up.”

Jon doesn’t stir as Martin begins to cry in earnest, the occasional purple rose petal fluttering to the ground from the force of his sobs.

—————

Jon hasn’t seen Martin at all in the weeks since he’s woken up and it hurts, _literally_ hurts, the ache in his chest growing stronger with each day that passes, his breathing becoming more labored as time goes on. When he had first woken up in the hospital there had been a moment where he had thought that maybe they had done surgery on him while he was out, had removed every last root and leaf of his love for Martin. And then he had woken up fully and felt that familiar ache, the stirring of leaves, the feeling in his heart.

He’s nearly finished recording a statement when he’s suddenly _aware_ that Martin’s nearby, and he practically trips all over himself to scramble to the door and pull it open. Martin’s nearly halfway down the hall, his back turned to Jon. “Martin? Martin!”

Martin turns, and for a moment Jon thinks he almost sees a smile before it turns into something else. A wince. A grimace. The look of a man who’s about to run from something. Still, he doesn’t move as Jon quickly walks up to him.

“Oh. Hi Jon.” Martin’s voice sounds strained, distant, so unlike how Jon remembers him sounding.

“Martin! I-I haven’t seen you since— I haven’t seen you!” _Why haven’t I seen you?_ Jon wants to say. He would have thought Martin would have been one of the first people he would have seen after he had woken up, not Basira. “Where have you been? I—I thought you’d—“ Jon stops short, swallowing hard against the itch in his throat.

“I’ve— I’ve been here,” Martin says. “I’ve just— been busy.”

“Busy.” The word is heavy in Jon’s mouth and something sharp flares, not in his lungs, but in his heart. “Has _Peter_ been keeping you busy?”

Martin looks pained. “Jon, it’s not—“ He clears his throat. “It’s not like that. It’s— complicated. I should— I should go.”

Jon swallows again, breathing shallowly. “Martin, I’m sorry, I—“ Leaves rustling, stems waving, hundreds of tiny blossoms crowding together in his chest. It’s so hard to get the words out past all of that. “It was good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Martin says and then he turns and walks away.

Jon turns away as well and almost makes it to his office door before the coughing starts. He feels himself sag against the wall as he desperately fights for air, his heart a wild, panicking thing in his chest. He can’t catch his breath, no matter how desperately he gasps. He’s going to die. All the things that have tried to kill him and he’s going to die in a hallway at work because he can’t _breathe_.

“Jon? Jon?” Basira’s voice, quick footsteps, and then she’s got a shoulder under his arm and he finds himself leaning on her as she gets him into his office proper and into a chair by his desk. She kneels in front of him, taking his hands. “Jon, try to breathe with me, okay?”

It’s hard. It’s hard and it hurts but slowly, slowly, Jon manages to calm down enough that the breaths become easier or at least, as easy as they can be for him. He’s painfully aware that there are tears of panic drying on his cheeks and that there is blood and tiny purple flowers all over the floor, himself, and even a few blood stained flowers on Basira from when she had helped Jon inside.

“Sorry,” Jon says horsely as soon as he can manage speech.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Basira says in that no nonsense way of hers. If she’s at all surprised by the blood and the flowers, she doesn’t show it. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“Please.”

Basira leaves and when she returns with the glass of water, Jon accepts it with hands that shake. “Thank you.”

Basira just nods. To Jon’s surprise she doesn’t make any move to leave, just leans on the edge of the desk as he drinks his water, picking the tiny flowers off of her shoulder and looking at them with calm interest.

“Heliotrope,” Basira says. “Eternal love. Hmmm.” She looks thoughtful. “It was daisy petals for me, though I’m pretty sure it was less about the flower’s meaning and more about— about Daisy herself.”

Jon blinks in surprise. “You?”

“Daisy and I had been working together for a few months when it started,” Basira says. “I just thought I was coming down with something, which I mean, I was, but I was thinking more along the lines of bronchitis maybe. As soon as I coughed up those first petals though—“ She sighs. “I called out of work while I tried to figure out what to do. Daisy is—“ Basira grimaces slightly. “Daisy _was _so focused on the job, you know? I hadn’t had a lot of luck trying to figure out if she felt anything towards me but professional respect.”

“So what happened?”

“Two days into my sick leave, she comes knocking at my door with homemade soup,” Basira says, smiling fondly, if sadly at the memory. “She looked so— so concerned, and then I started coughing and— it was terribly embarrassing really, but being sick in front of someone you’re in love with always is in the beginning. And as soon as she saw the petals she _knew_, obviously. They _were_ daises after all. She said later that it was all rather dramatic and a little bit terrifying, but at the time she just very gently put her hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and told me she loved me. And I could breathe again. Just like that.”

“Just like that,” Jon echoes softly.

“Jon. Just tell Martin how you feel.”

Jon doesn’t ask how she knows this is about Martin. Basira is observant and, well, Jon admits he is probably very obvious. “He doesn’t love me, Basira.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon doesn’t reply, just listens to the leaves rustling in his lungs as he breathes. If he was sure, really sure, things would be a lot simpler. If he could just _talk _to Martin for more than a few minutes, maybe he could work up the nerve to ask.

Except Jon doesn’t get those few minutes. He gets rituals to stop and statements to read and people to rescue and his own hunger to fight instead. The few conversations he has with Martin are too fleeting and leave him near breathless and exhausted.

It all comes to a head the day Peter takes Martin and vanishes into the Lonely. What choice does Jon have but to follow, choking on fear and flowers?

————

Martin stares at what’s left of Peter’s body on the sand, the bright red blood already fading to the palest pink. He should be feeling something right now, he’s sure of it. Instead he just breathes in, breathes out again. It doesn’t hurt. His chest still feels heavy, as heavy as the fog surrounding him, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s been so long since he hasn’t hurt. He can feel the leaves withering slowly inside him, the roots shriveling, the rose canes drying out as the roses wilt. Soon they’ll be dead, and when they die so will the last of his feelings for Jon. That would have frightened him before, would have been the most terrible thing he could have thought of. Now though, now the fear seems so very far away.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice sounds muffled and strange, as if the fog is doing something to distort the sound. “Martin, he’s gone.”

“Yes,” Martin says simply. “You should go too. I’ll stay. It’s quiet here. Nothing hurts.”

Martin hears footsteps coming closer, but still he can barely see Jon through the fog.

“I’m not leaving without you,” Jon says, and he sounds like he’s choking on the words.

“Why?”

“Because we need you, Martin. I—“ Jon coughs, a ragged, almost familiar sound. “_I _need you.”

“No you don’t,” Martin says, as soft as a sigh. All this time Martin had been letting his love for Jon kill him when Jon hadn’t even needed him at all. That was sad, wasn’t it? “Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.”

“I don’t just want to **survive**!” Jon shouts, and there is more coughing, thick and wet sounding.

Martin feels the faintest concern flutter in his chest, trembling like a rose petal about to fall. “You should go,” he says again.

“_Martin_,” Jon’s voice is so faint and yet somehow it cuts through the muffling fog and rises over the sound of the ocean. He can barely see Jon through the fog even though he’s close enough to put his hands on Martin’s shoulders, a touch that Martin can barely feel, might only be imagining. “_Martin, look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.”_

“I see—“ Martin blinks and the fog seems to shift, as if the fog had been in his eyes and not in front of him all along. Jon’s face is close to his, every line and scar, but it’s his eyes that draw Martin’s attention. Those warm eyes, the only spots of color in the faded landscape of the Lonely. Those eyes filled with tears and desperation and love. Love for _him._

Martin feels something well up in his throat, and when he opens his mouth to speak one perfect, purple rose blossom falls onto the sand as the roots and leaves and stems inside of him vanish. For the first time in years, Martin takes a deep breath.

“I see you, Jon.” Martin feels himself smile. How long has it been since he last smiled? “I _see _you.”

“Martin,” Jon whispers, relieved, and for a moment everything is perfect. “Martin, I—“

The sound that escapes Jon before he collapses onto the sand will stay with Martin for the rest of his life, a horrible choking rattle combined with the rustling of leaves. It’ll be years before he can hear trees rustling in the wind without wanting to scream. For a moment Martin is frozen as he watches Jon fall limply to the sand— next to a pile of small purple flowers covered in blood, next to Martin’s perfect rose.

“No,” Martin hears himself say as he falls to his knees in the sand. “No, not you too, no Jon, not you too.”

Martin cradles Jon’s body as the first bright green leaves start to grow from his open mouth. It’s just like the illustrations Martin remembers from his reading all those years ago, those fascinatingly macabre pictures of cadavers that had turned into gardens. How had he ever thought they were beautiful?

“Jon, Jon don’t die, please don’t die, I love you.” He can say it now when he hadn’t been able to say it before, the words falling from his lips like the flower petals once had. “I love you, Jon, don’t die, please don’t go, don’t leave me, I love you, I love you, _please—“_

Martin closes his eyes and takes another deep breath so he can continue his litany. He’ll say the words for a year and a day if he has to, say them forever, say them until the ocean rises to claim them both.

The sound of Jon gasping, of that first deep, miraculous breath will follow Martin for the rest of his life as well. Martin opens his eyes, his tears falling on Jon as he opens his eyes as well.

“Martin?” The word is accompanied by a shower of tiny, perfect purple flowers.

“Jon!”

Simultaneously, they wrap their arms around each other, each of them holding the other so tightly for a moment that they struggle to breathe before adjusting their grip. They stay like that for a long time, just listening to the sound of their breathing, feeling the rise and fall of their chests and the matched beating of their hearts as, together, they watch the sea breeze scatter their flowers out into the fog and over the ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> I think most Hanahaki fics have just one character of the pair afflicted, but I couldn't shake the image of both Jon and Martin suffering and not saying anything to the other about it. It seemed very much them.
> 
> I'm angel-ascending on Tumblr and angel_in_ink on Twitter if y'all want to stop by and say hi!


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